12 Bullets Page 12

  “You mean the kids with the .22s?”

  “They’ve been shooting at fishermen.”

  “And hitting nothing. I’m going in soon as I climb into these waders.”

  “I think not.”

  “What are you going to do, call the police? This might be a national wildlife reserve but it’s still in the New Orleans city limits.”

  The men look at each other.

  “I’ll get my supervisor to call your chief.”

  “My chief’s the one who sent me.” Beau gives them a cold smile. “Y’all been in here before?”

  The younger one gives Beau a sheepish look. The older one starts for the door. The younger one says, “We’re assigned to the battlefield. Chalmette.”

  “Watch out for gators. It’s mating season. Don’t stumble over a nest. Mother gator guards them. And watch out for coral snakes, cottonmouths and especially eastern diamondback rattlers, the most venomous snake in Louisiana. Can grow to eight feet.”

  The rangers stop just inside the door.

  “And the silk spiders. You’ll see them right away. This swamp is filthy with hanging webs. Spider’s about 4-inches wide. Bite can’t kill you but it’s painful.” Beau waves to the door. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  The two rangers leave. Beau spots them on the wooden walkway leading into the swamp, the walking-tour, both with their hands on their holstered pistols, both crouched and looking at the wall of spider webs above.

  He waits until they are out of sight and follows but doesn’t take the first turn. He jumps the railing and moves across the marsh in a direct line for the wigwam, through the familiar buzz of swamp insects, the strong, fetid odors from his childhood. Super-heated air, heavy with humidity, nearly takes Beau’s breath away but this is home for him.

  Beau sloshes through ankle-deep swamp water crossing occasional patches of grassy land, making enough noise to run off snakes – except cottonmouths, of course. Bastards don’t run away from anything, not even gators that will eat them if they catch the quick, slick, black bastards. A flock of white pelicans with black wingtips glide overhead, riding the thermals toward the lake.

  The heavy woods grow thin enough for Beau to spot a trail of smoke rising into the air and he moves between cypress stands to higher ground and around camellia bushes and thick brush of wild azalea bushes to an open area. He crosses to the wigwam and calls out.

  “Jerome Morrison! It’s Beau. Chief Inspector Beau. You in there?”

  Beau’s about to call out again when Morrison steps out with a large back pack and puts it next to the entrance. He nods to Beau, stretches and goes back inside the wigwam. Something scurries to Beau’s right and he sees a squirrel chasing another squirrel. Mating ritual. Morrison comes out, nods to Beau.

  The man’s almost clean shaven and he must has found a comb.

  “You might want to put out the fire inside. Couple park rangers are out here looking for kids firing .22s at fishing boats.”

  Morrison nods again and goes back into the Wigwam. The smoke stop flowing from the wigwam’s roof. He comes out a couple minutes later with a large white porcelain mug.

  “Want some cowboy coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Cowboy coffee – toss coffee grounds in a coffee pot, pour in water and put it over a fire to let it boil a while, let the grounds settle before pouring into a mug.

  “Kids with .22’s?”

  Beau steps closer.

  “That would be Ronald and Donald Juniper. Live in a yellow house on pilings along Highway 11 near Irish Bayou. Led them out of the swamp yesterday. They were lost. Said they’d been taking pot shots at fishermen for the fun of it. Made sure they didn’t hit any.”

  “They have their rifles with them?”

  “Yep.”

  Beau looks around, nods again. “If those rangers find you, they’ll evict you.”

  “I’m going for a hike. Wanna come along?”

  “No. How you been doing?”

  “OK. Lots of game. But you could do me a favor.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Decided to hitchhike into the city the other day.” Morrison rubs his cheek. “Shaved and put on clean clothes to go the bank only they wouldn’t let me take out any of my money ‘cause my driver’s license is expired.”

  “Which bank?”

  “LA Bank. Gentilly branch.”

  Beau thinks about it. Man just gave him the names of the juvenile jackasses shooting at fisherman. He looks closely at Morrison. Clothes look clean.

  “Come with me. I can help you with that particular bank.”

  “You can?”

  BEFORE THEY ARRIVE at the Monlezun Building, Beau calls Jessie.

  “Hey, Babe.”

  “Hey, Babe. I need a favor.”

  Five minutes later, as Beau leads Mr. Morrison into the marble lobby of the massive bank, a prim man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, rims painted yellow and wearing a pin-striped dark blue suit extends a hand to Beau.

  “P. Burlington LaFleur.” The handshake is firm and quick. “I am the bank manager.” He steps aside and says, “This way to my office.”

  Beau and Morrison sit in front of a massive granite-and-cherrywood desk.

  “Miss Carini explained the situation,” says the manager, who goes on to say this is irregular and all the forms that must be filled out. When he says something about notarizing, Beau pulls out his iPhone and calls Jessie again.

  “Put Peabody on the phone,” she snaps.

  Beau gets up, goes around and hands his iPhone to Peabody Burlington LaFleur, who shivers and stiffens and asks, “Who’s on the line?”

  “Guess.” Beau puts his iPhone in the man’s hand.

  “Hello. Oh, yes. Yes. But. But.” His face reddens and his shoulders sink. Peabody holds up iPhone for Beau to go around and gets it.

  “Babe?”

  “You won’t have any more trouble. Some people have to be told twice.”

  The manager pushes his intercom button, calls for an assistant, tells the elderly woman to allow Mr. Morrison to conduct whatever business he needs to.

  SUPPER FOR FOUR tonight – gyro sandwiches, a lentil and rice concoction called mujadarah and thick steak fries, roasted garlic hummus, extra pita bread and baklava for dessert. They waited to be sitting and eating to start, Beau looking at Jessie wearing one of his white T-shirts and jeans, the T-shirt baggy on her. She looks like she has something to say so Beau says, “Go first.”

  “Peabody Burlington LaFleur tried to send a text to Alexandre Louvier in India only Alexandre’s texts and emails are automatically intercepted by our IT department who thought I might want to know Peabody complained about me concerning my Englishman, Lord Palmer and your swamp man, Jerome Morrison. I answered for Alexandre. Two words: ‘Shut Up’.”

  Juanita goes next –

  “The boy’s name is Jose Jiminez, nine years old. Took some prodding but his mother got the story out of him. He and two older Latino boys saw an old man put on a black mask and spray paint the cathedral. He’s seen the man around before but can’t remember where. He’s scared because he thinks the old man saw him. I told him we’d protect him but the family’s not sure.

  Jose gave up the names of his friends who hate the police and probably won’t talk to us. We should see in the morning. Pablo Huete and Manuel Alora. Live in Bywater. We should knock on their doors, 7 a.m., scoop both, bring them to the Detective Bureau.”

  “If you scoop them, you’ll need Juvenile Detectives. Meanwhile, I have to talk to the morons with the .22s.”

  “What morons?”

  Beau explains about Ronald and Donald Juniper. He’d done a flyby, located the yellow house, license plate on a blue 2006 Toyota came back to Samuel and Alice Juniper.

  Jordan asks, “How’d you find them?

  “I have a source in Bayou Sauvage.”

  “In the bayou?”

  “In the refuge.” Beau turns to Jessie.

  She winks, asks, “Was hi
s wigwam OK when y’all got back?”

  “I went in with him. Rangers didn’t find it. Not sure if they got booby-trapped but I suspect they didn’t get off the elevated walkway.”

  “We know anybody in the Juvenile Division?” goes Juanita. Beau sees Stella’s ears. She’s on Jordan’s lap.

  He tells Juanita no.

  “Isn’t Conan Sebastian a lieutenant there?”

  “If the pig-brain transplant worked.” No way they can read Beau’s face.

  Stella reaches a paw for a slice of gyro that fell out of Jordan’s sandwich.

  “Don’t feed Stella table food.”

  Jordan grins at Jessie.

  Beau to Juanita – “Jordan tell you he’s going out with a Booby-Baby?”

  Juanita’s eyes go wide.

  “He should tell you all about her.” Beau cups his hands in front of his chest as if he has big boobs.

  Beau to Jordan – “What’s her name again? Anita Bonita Spermatozoa?”

  Beau to Juanita – “She’s an apprentice cocksucker. Something like an assistant crack-whore.”

  Beau to Jessie who can’t seem to catch her breath – “She’s not that good at giving head but she’s learning.”

  The Great Beau just beaued the three.

  RETURNING TO HIGHWAY 11, on the eastern edge of the city along Lake Pontchartrain, Beau’s mind flashes back a few years to the case that almost ended his career and life. He pulls off the two-lane, black-topped highway and looks at a camp suspended on creosote pilings off Highway 11 along Irish Bayou Canal not fifty yards from the lake. Cop-killer Clyde Pailet lived here before Beau chased him down in the Bayou Sauvage refuge and executed the man next to a railroad trestle. Somebody had to. Running gun battle. Pailet ran out of bullets. Beau didn’t.

  A half mile further along Highway 11, Beau pulls alongside the road in front of a wooden yellow camp on creosote pilings. There’s a screen porch surrounding the unpainted, wooden house which has a corrugated tin roof. The blue Toyota sits on the small shell parking area in front of the house. It’s been moved, parked facing the road today. A long wooden walkway connects the house to the shell lot.

  This semi-wild part of town reminds Beau of home. The camps, the clapboard houses, the occasional brick house lining the highway have absolutely nothing in common with the wrought-iron balconies of the French Quarter, except being within the same city limits. Behind the camps, the wide expanse of the lake, dotted with small cypress islands, could almost pass for Vermilion Bay.

  The odors of fish and shrimp and mildew brush over Beau as he walks to the front door. He knocks and hears footfalls. The door is opened by a teenage boy in a yellow-gold LSU T-shirt and cutoff jeans. No shoes, the boy has a small bag of Milk Duds in his hand.

  “Who’s there?” This from a deep, male voice.

  “Police,” Beau says, holds open the side of his unbuttoned, white dress shirt to show his badge. He wears black rip-stop trousers, canvas belt holding the badge, carbon-fiber holster with this magnum, canvas handcuff carrier, canvas dual-magazine holder and scabbard for his obsidian knife at the small of his back.

  The boy steps away from the door which swings open slowly as a man in a wheelchair fills the doorway. Long, straight hair hangs past his shoulders. He holds a coffee mug in hand and wears a purple LSU T-shirt and jeans.

  “Was that Ronald or Donald?”

  “Donald.” The man scowls at Beau for a second, looks at his son.

  “Chief Inspector John Raven Beau, NOPD.”

  The scowl goes away and the man almost smiles.

  “Damn. In the flesh. What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “I need to speak with Ronald and Donald. Are you a relative?”

  The man rolls closer, sticks out his right hand.

  “I’m their father. Arnold Juniper. I was in the same Western Civ class with you at LSU.” He looks over his shoulder. “Donnie, go get your brother but don’t wake up your mom.”

  Back to Beau, “The wife’s a pediatric nurse. Works the midnight shift.”

  Donald comes back with a brother a year or two younger. Both boys look small for their age, both with reddish-brown hair.

  “May I come inside?”

  “Sure. Sure.” Arnolds rolls back in and Donald closes the door as Beau steps into a clean-living room with a hardwood floor, two large brown sofas, big screen TV, lamps, white walls decorated with New Orleans Saints and LSU Tiger prints.

  “This is the man I told you about. LSU quarterback who dated Judy Barlow when she was a golden girl at LSU.”

  Neither boy looks at Beau so he asks if they’re good shots with their .22s.

  “Excellent shots,” goes the father. “Bring home squirrels regularly, rabbits when in season, even a couple wild piglets.”

  Beau takes out his Moleskine notebook and a pen and asks the boys ages and dates of birth.

  “You’re both juveniles and you’re fortunate no one wants to press charges.”

  Arnold looks at his sons and looks back at Beau.

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about taking pot shots at fishermen with .22 rifles.”

  The father turns his wheelchair to face his sons who both bow their heads.

  “What’s he talking about?”

  Nothing from the boys so Beau tells Arnold about it and the man leans back in his wheelchair and shakes his head. A woman comes in wearing a robe. She’s about 5’2” with red hair, her light eyes narrowed at Beau as he finishes.

  “It’s my fault,” goes Arnold. “I bought them the .22s when my wife told me not to.”

  The woman comes over, pats Arnold’s shoulder on her way to the boys. They won’t look up at her.

  “Did you do it?”

  Donald nods slowly.

  “The guns go in the lake,” she says, looking at Beau now. “Would that get you out of my house?”

  Beau shakes his head and she presses her fists against her hips.

  Beau to the boys – “All I want is a promise, on your honor, y’all won’t do it again. Whaddya say, boys?”

  The boys nod and Donald says, “Yes, sir.”

  “We won’t,” Ronald whispers.

  “I need you boys to promise me. It’s important I believe you.”

  Both boys whisper, “I promise.”

  Beau waits for them to look at him and he gives them the cold look of the plains warrior. He thanks them, nods to the parents and leaves.

  Two pelicans glide past Beau as he moves down the raised walkway.

  “Officer,” the woman calls out behind him. She follows, holding her robe closed.

  “We’re sorry you had to come out here on this.” She stops and looks at the water. “My husband’s a veteran. Afghanistan. He’s not paralyzed but his legs are too damaged for him to walk more than a few steps. My boys are good boys.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment. They’re just boys. I had a .22 when I was their age.”

  I knew better than to fuckin’ shoot at people – he thinks.

  “You’re the man who killed those terrorists, aren’t you?”

  Beau nods.

  “My husband told me you were an LSU quarterback.”

  Beau nods again.

  She looks at the water again.

  “I hope my boys keep their promise to you.”

  Beau takes out a business card, writes his cell phone number on the back, hands it to her.

  “Call me if you need me again with the boys. Better me than uniform officers.” He shrugs, gives her a little smile. “They’re just kids.”

  She nods, looks down at the card. A tear falls on her wrist and Beau waits. She nods, wipes her eyes, turns and walks back to her house.

  THE DOOR OF the CIU conference room opens and Chief Féroce comes in wearing another smart-looking skirt-suit, this one light gray.

  “So, there you are,” she tells Beau. “What’s going on at the Rigolets?”

  “Couple of kids. I’ll send a report.”<
br />
  She sits at the table. “You arrested the kids?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “No?”

  “Got a promise.”

  Her eyes grow wide and he tells her about the two boys, the disabled veteran father.

  “The mother’s a nurse and when I looked into her weary eyes, I saw pain. I don’t think there will be any more pot shots.”

  “A promise?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The chief inspector of your elite unit made an executive decision.”

  She smiles, nods. “Always suspected you had a soft side.”

  “Couple of rambunctious boys.”

  “Shooting at passing boats.”

  “Kids that can shoot squirrels, rabbits and piglets wouldn’t miss a boat. They were just trying to scare the boaters. Stupid kids.”

  The drums start beating on Beau’s iPhone and he looks. Stefi calling.

  “That’s some ringtone,” goes Féroce and Jordan explains it being a Sioux war chant as Beau answers the call.

  “Johnny, I’m being followed,” Stefi in a breathy voice. “Two men in dark suits.”

  He shakes his head. “Are you serious?”

  “Damn right I am.” Her voice quivers.

  “Where are you?”

  “On the streetcar. I spotted them trailing me from school. They were trying not to be obvious.”

  “If this is a joke, tell me now. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “I’m not joking.” Her voice deepens.

  Beau gets up, waves to Juanita.

  “I rode past my stop and got off at the circle.” That would be Lee Circle.

  “I got a drink at Starbucks and went to catch the streetcar going back uptown and saw them hurry to catch it.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “In the back of the streetcar.”

  “Go and sit as close as you can to the driver. Stay on the streetcar. We’re going to intercept and don’t get off the phone with me.”